“We can’t.”
“Damn. Too bad. I would look fine in that car. Anyway, my concern is you’re rewriting history and I’m trying to understand why. You were unhappy with the minivan but you stuck it out until it made sense to trade it in, and I was proud of your self-restraint. Now we don’t need a van, but we got another one anyway. I suspect you let the kids bully you into it, and I’m worried you’re going to be unhappy again. I don’t want that.”
“Point taken.” I’m not offering much by way of counterargument in the hope that he’ll drop the conversation.
“I don’t want to set a precedent. The girls are both at an age where they’re starting to push their boundaries. If they see you’re an easy mark, we’re going to have trouble with discipline down the line. If they find they can push you around, they aren’t going to respect you.”
I’m starting to feel like Chris is disciplining me. He’s given me a fair amount of grief since he came home, first over the van, then over the iPods and all of Jessica’s new clothes, and also Kelsey’s, and the whole Harry Potter Lego setup I bought for Topher. Technically, he didn’t ask for anything, but I wanted to be fair.
“Chris, you do things for them all the time, especially Kelsey, like with the cereal and the leggings!” I argue.
Chris runs his hands through his hair, like he always does when he’s trying to maintain an even keel. “Yes, to help them. I also require each of them to either do chores around the house or earn good grades before they receive any rewards. If we just hand them whatever they want for no reason, they won’t appreciate what they have. They’ll grow up to be spoiled. We promised ourselves we weren’t going to be those people. There are too many of them around here. We agreed we weren’t going to be the overindulgent absentee parents with the obnoxious kids who can’t function as adults.”
“No Veruca Salts,” I say, referring to the promise we made back when I was pregnant for the first time and we’d watched Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. We’d both freaked out a little bit after Veruca launched into her “I want it now” business. We’d seen the movie a dozen times, but never with one on the way before, and we’d both panicked.
“Do you get it? Are we on the same page? Are we cool?”
“You’re right,” I say, nodding. “I get it. I do. We are cool. I lost my head, but I’ve located it again. Here, it’s right on my shoulders where it belongs.”
He hugs me and kisses me squarely on the forehead. “Thank you. Then I’m gonna check in on the boy, help him out with his Hogwarts building project. Can you see how Jessica’s doing on her pre-algebra? I suspect it’s going slowly. She really didn’t inherit your genes there, did she?”
“You’ve got it.”
I climb the stairs and walk down the hallway to Jessica’s room. Her door is closed, as usual, so I give it a tentative knock.
“Come in.”
Jessica’s not solving for X—instead she’s standing in front of her full-length mirror, trying to copy Hilary Duff’s Lizzie McGuire style from a recent People magazine. From the bangs to the floppy hat to the gummy bracelets, she’s pretty much nailed the whole look. Barnaby is lying on her pillow, watching her intently. He’s rarely more than a few steps away from Jessica. He eyes me suspiciously as I enter her room.
“Are you Hilary Duff or Jessica Sinclair, because I can’t tell,” I say.
“Really?” she says. She tries to fight her urge to smile, and ultimately loses. She looks so young when she turns on the full wattage of a genuine grin.
Sure, I put more on the credit card than I meant to at Old Orchard Mall, but Jessica and Kelsey were so thrilled at their new things and their attitudes have greatly improved over the past few days. I realize they’ve been behind the curve with their peers in terms of wardrobe, and I hope what I bought them helps them blend in, too.
Chris is not keen on the idea of me stepping up my work schedule at all, so if I want more activities for the kids, I’ll have to implement austerity measures around the house. I’m sure I can paint my own nails. And how hard can it be to trim my own bangs? Everyone can wear an extra sweater in the winter, too. We can do this. We’ll figure it out.
“Really,” I confirm.
“Yeah, but . . .” She trails off, and the smile disappears.
“But?”
“See that necklace?” She points to Hilary’s silver Return to Tiffany heart dangling from thick links, fastened with a round toggle. “I wish I had one like that. The heart would so complete the look, and I really, really love it. . . .”
I begin to say, “You can certainly have one—”
She squeals and throws her skinny arms around me. I can feel her heart beating through her chest. Barnaby wags his tail in approval as well. “Oh, my God, I love you the most, Mommy! You’re the best mother in the whole world! Bethany is gonna be sooooo jealous! Finally! I finally win! I finally have something that will be better than her! Thank you, thank you!”
This all happens so fast that I’m not able to complete the rest of my sentence, where I planned to say, “as soon as the Walt Disney Corporation gives you a TV show, too.”
Shit.
Now I’m obligated to buy the stupid necklace.
There’s no take-backsies here, not after that over-the-top reaction. I’d rather cough up the hundred bucks (two hundred?) (three hundred?) than have her mad at me for the next six months. And I walked right into it, too; this is one hundred percent my own doing.
So I guess the new austerity measures will start as soon as I get back from Tiffany. Do I have to pick up something for Kelsey, too? Yeah, I bet I do. Damn it.
I will not be mentioning any of this to Chris.
I mean, one more tiny set of unearned presents isn’t going to be what Veruca Salts the girls . . . right?
CHAPTER SEVEN
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: June 5th
Subject: PAST DUE: THIRD NOTICE
Invoice #46129978
Account #9893342
Amount Due: $3,296.51
Date Due: March 1st
Dear Miss Sinclair:
Your account is now ninety days past due. Immediate action is required to bring your account current. If we do not receive payment within the next five business days, this debt will be turned over to our legal team for collection, which may adversely affect your credit rating. Please mail a check to us at once.
Thank you,
Harold Rochester
Collections Specialist
Empire Art Supply, NYC
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: June 5th
Subject: Credit Limit Reached
Dear MISS/MRS./MR. JESSICA SINCLAIR:
Our records indicate that you have exceeded your $25,000 VISA CREDIT CARD LIMIT. No further credit will be available until you make a payment, which you can do at your local branch of CHELSEA BANK OF NYC, online at CHELSEABANKOFNYC.COM, or at any one of the two million STAR interbank networked ATMs across the United States.
Thanks,
The Friendly Bankers at CHELSEA BANK OF NYC
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: June 5th
Subject: Status check-a-roni, part dos!
Hi, Jess! Um . . . should the lights be off in your apartment? I feel like the lights shouldn’t be off. Should I call Con Edison? I feel like I should call Con Edison. Can I eat the caviar in your fridge? I feel like I should eat the caviar in your fridge because it’s gonna go stink-a-roni soon, and who wants to come home to hot, bad fish eggs, right? I feel like I should drink the champagne, too. Same reason.
I feel like I should probs work from home because I’m not
sure what else to do without electricity and it’s kinda stuff-a-roni in here. Anyhootie, have a totes kewl weekend!
XO, Cassie
• • • •
“You brought Stassi,” I say, opening the front door. I watch as Stassi gathers assorted bags from Chris’s car, feeling like I’ve been sucker punched. “You brought Stassi to stay at my house.”
“Yes,” Chris replies. “She packed her sewing machine and the material she needs to fix our daughter’s dress.”
“Your girlfriend is going to sleep in the house where you and I lived when we were married. To each other. Until we weren’t because you started dating your secretary.”
Chris sighs. “She also has an iPhone full of all of her interior designer contacts so we can track down more birdcages to replace the ones Max sent away. And she’s already called her uncle with the forklift, who’s on his way here to move the tub.”
What he’s telling me isn’t registering. I can’t see past the idea that That New Hussy is going to sleep here. “You and your girlfriend are going to have a slumber party. Together. In my house. Where we raised our babies. Where we mourned your parents’ passing. Where we supervised homework. I don’t remember growing older—when did they? Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers, blossoming even as we gaze.”
Why am I suddenly quoting lines from Fiddler on the Roof? Am I having a rage stroke?
Chris shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Do you want to see the string of texts I received from you after we talked? You outlined all the problems up here, and I went through them one by one. Stassi is the key to the solutions. She took the rest of the day off of work for us. She canceled her client appointments.”
“Slumber party at Penny’s house, woo-hoo!”
I might be having a rage stroke.
“What’s going on right now with Kelsey? A new iPod can’t fix. Math can’t fix. Bribes can’t fix. But Stassi can; you just have to let her. Please don’t let your pride and anger ruin your daughter’s day.”
“Has Stassi been to a slumber party recently? I’ll give you five-to-one odds that she has in the past ten years. Because she’s, what, twenty? Do they still freeze bras? Wait, she doesn’t wear one, so I bet she doesn’t know.”
Twin spots of color begin to rise on Chris’s cheeks while the rest of his face turns white. “Number one, she’s in her thirties, and number two, you can’t allow my mistakes to ruin our daughter’s wedding day, especially when Stassi didn’t do anything wrong. Penny, be reasonable. You’re better than this.”
“What, will you both sleep on the pullout sofa in the den, or will one of you take the living room couch? I’m just curious. How will this work? Ooh, brainstorm, let’s all have breakfast together in the morning! I’ll make omelets. Does Stassi like goat cheese? How does she feel about fresh chives?”
He braces himself against the doorjamb. “I understand how difficult this is, Penny, believe me. You think this is easy for me? That this is what I envisioned? This should be joyful, and I’m so goddamned stressed I want to throw up in that fern over there,” he says, pointing at a potted plant on the corner of the porch.
I’m not helping the situation, and yet I can’t stop myself. The bitterness spews out of me like lava from Mount Vesuvius, which we were supposed to see on the anniversary trip to Italy we didn’t take, what with Chris’s active social life and newfound love of smooth jazz.
I fucking hate smooth jazz now, by the way.
I query, “In terms of sleepwear, do you two go all old Doris Day film, with her in the big plaid jammie top and you in the matching bottoms? ‘The pajama game is lots of fun; two can sleep as cheap as one!’”
Chris’s eyes are pleading. “Penny, please. I’m not asking for me. I’m asking for Kelsey.”
Yet I am relentless.
“Or is she more of a boxer-shorts-and-tank-top kind of a girl? What about lingerie? Does she trend more La Perla or Fredericks of Hollywood? Inquiring minds want to know, but I have my suspicions.”
Chris runs his hands through his hair. “Jesus, Penny, this is already hard enough.”
“Penelope Bancroft Sinclair, come here this instant.”
I slowly turn to face Marjorie. I swear to God I’m going to buy a bell to place around her neck because I’ve had it with her sneaking up on everyone with her little cat’s feet. You’d think we’d at least hear all the gin and onions sloshing around inside of her, but no.
Marjorie says, “I have an amethyst choker that would be brilliant with your dress. Come along, pet. You’ll try it on posthaste.” And before I even realize what’s happening, she whisks me up into the guest room and closes the door behind her. She points to the bed. “Be seated.”
I sit. I feel like I have no choice. I notice that she and Max have practically moved in, which is no surprise. Marjorie was never one to travel light. Once on a family trip to Yellowstone, she brought eleven suitcases. Why she thought she might need her choice of ball gowns in a national park, I have no clue, but she was prepared for any eventuality. Perhaps I get my deep and abiding love of contingency plans from her?
“My dear, I have walked this earth more than sixty years,” she begins.
I interrupt. “You realize who you’re talking to, right? I know how old you are. You weren’t nine when I was born. Lying about your age insults us all.”
She glances at herself in the vanity mirror and applies a loose dusting of powder with a fat mink brush. “Not a lie, darling. I have walked the earth for more than sixty years.”
“Considerably more.”
“To-mah-to, po-tah-to,” she replies. “My point is this—today you have to eat what is inelegantly known as a shit sandwich. Unfortunate, but true. But you have a choice—you can swallow it whole and be done, or you can take a dozen small bites, chewing each one thoroughly and for no good reason. Right now you’re taking one small bite after another. Stop it. Swallow the bloody thing and move on. I promise, when you look down at the empty plate, you will feel better.”
I consider her statement—either way, I still have to consume everything today’s delivering to me on said plate, and there’s no getting around it. But if I heed Marjorie’s advice, at least I won’t have to prolong the most unpleasant parts.
“Marjorie, that’s the least terrible advice you’ve ever given me,” I say. I hesitate to use the word “best,” especially with the woman who once advised me that only homely girls finish college.
“Oh, good! Well-done, me,” she replies. Instead of hugging me, she makes more of a shooing motion. “Okay, then, off you go.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“We’re done? Didn’t you want me to try on a necklace?” I ask.
“A ruse, my dear. I wanted to save you from yourself. Amethysts? Really? What are we, Italians?”
I stand up and walk to the doorway. “Well, sound advice anyway. Thank you.”
“Penelope, darling?”
I turn to look back at her. “Yes, Mo—” I stop myself. For a second I almost called her Mom. Damn. This has been a crazy day. “Yes, Marjorie?”
“We’re still out of Boodles.”
• • • •
Confident in my inability to harness my fat yap around Stassi, I’ve been tacitly avoiding finding reasons to enter Kelsey’s room. Yet I keep walking past Kelsey’s door, waiting for the invitation that never comes.
Kelsey quit wailing quite a while ago. Now the buzz coming from her end of the hallway is upbeat and celebratory, so I sense that Stassi has the situation well in hand. I’m catching threads of conversation here and there. Earlier Stassi mentioned being able to sew curtains in her sleep. Really? I wanted to shout. Because I can do calculus in my sleep! But I didn’t.
The last time I passed, Kelsey had her shoulder pressed against Stassi’s as she mended the dress and saved
the day. That felt like a knife in the heart. Now I hear Zara say something about Arctic Foxes and Fleet Monkeys, to which Stassi replies, “You mean, like, Vampire Weekday?” and everyone dies laughing. Another joke I’m not in on.
I feel old and useless and painfully unwanted.
I should be grateful for Stassi’s assistance, and to an extent, I am. Yet I still want to kick a lung out of someone. Probably Chris.
I’m not sure what to do with myself. I’m at such loose ends. I’ve been wandering around here aimlessly for the past couple of hours now. I’d work off some steam in the basement gym, but the room’s all staged with Mason jars and flatware for tomorrow, so there’s not a square inch of floor space left.
I’d be happy to supervise some of the crews, but the bathtub has already been relocated, thus unplugging the main artery to the backyard, so caterers, florists, and party-rental reps are scurrying around getting everything ready for tomorrow, under Bella’s watchful eye. I’d simply be redundant if I were to volunteer. Topher and Patrick are already gone, having taken Marjorie out to the rehearsal-dinner site, luring her away with the promise of an unlimited supply of Boodles.
Chris spoke with Stassi’s friend about borrowing a few vintage pieces. With instructions to load up on “anything rusty” at a local storage facility, he returned with a moving truck full of items flaking off all over the place, and he’s currently arranging them in the yard, so I prefer to stay inside. Kelsey shrieked—the good kind—when she saw the decrepit swing set and the oxidized tricycles. And the corroded teeter-totter? She said she simply “couldn’t even.” Naturally, Kelsey thinks her daddy is some kind of hero right now.
I watch from the window on the second floor as Chris attempts to string burlap banners across the sad old pieces of playground equipment.
“It’s like the set of The Walking Dead out there,” Jessica says, coming up behind me.
Seriously, I am buying bells for everyone. Or is it that I’m losing my sense of hearing? Terrific. First I need Botox; now I need Miracle-Ear.
By the Numbers Page 11